


you taste blood and call it wine

by starlight_sugar



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar
Summary: Four times Nyssa saved Laurel, and one time Laurel saved Nyssa.





	you taste blood and call it wine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm watching Arrow for the first time and I know I'm a couple years late on this, but the fic bug bit me today, so have this technically-canon-compliant late-s3 fic. It was fun to write.
> 
> content warnings: canon-typical violence, referenced canon character death, allusions to alcoholism

1.

Laurel doesn’t get stabbed - and not just stabbed, but stabbed in the way that makes her wonder about updating her will and maybe writing goodbye letters to her family just in case - until the sixth mugging she stops. It’s stupid, she’s being careless, and she berates herself before anyone else gets the chance to. She doesn’t have much else to do when she’s bleeding out, with nobody coming for her. She didn’t notice that the guy had a knife until it was in her side, and it didn’t start hurting until she punched him straight in the face and he ran off. But now it definitely hurts.

She has a hand clasped over the wound and the cold comfort that she definitely broke the asshole’s nose when she hears someone land in front of her. She has a brief moment to be grateful that someone in Team Arrow got her calls before there are hands on her stomach, pressing  _ hard. _

Laurel shouts out before she can help it, and her savior scoffs, and Laurel realizes it’s not Diggle or Roy after all.

“You need to learn to field-dress wounds,” Nyssa says, voice more clipped than usual. “Or at the very least how to fight while wounded.”

“Hey, it’s my first time, cut me a break,” Laurel says. Or, well, slurs, because it’s been a few minutes and she’s more than a little lightheaded. “What are you doing here?”

“I never left Starling, you know that.” Nyssa grabs Laurel’s elbow. “Sit up straight.”

Laurel doesn’t think she can, but she knows Nyssa wouldn’t accept that, so she lets Nyssa pull her upright, both of their hands pressed to her side. “You said it’s a flesh wound?”

“It looks like one, and besides, you’re still alive.”

Laurel snorts before she can help herself. “Is that your metric? Wounds that’ll kill you versus wounds that don’t?”

Nyssa doesn’t look amused. “It’s the most important distinction.”

Laurel mulls that over for a second and decides that there’s something to that, so she lets it go. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I told you why I’m here.”

“Not in Starling, in this alleyway. Are you following me?”

Nyssa looks taken aback. “Of course not.”

“Then you have some good timing,” Laurel says. She can hear footsteps on the rooftop, loud and getting closer, and Nyssa must too, because she looks up. “That’s probably Diggle.”

“Is he following you?”

“I called him. Help me stand.”

Nyssa does, leveraging Laurel to her feet with a look that Laurel can’t parse, isn’t sure she could if she weren’t bleeding out. “You need to learn to check your attackers for weapons,” she says, and that clipped edge is back, something sharper than normal. Laurel’s only been training with her a couple days, not long enough to learn Nyssa in depth, but long enough to know something is different here.

“You could always patrol with me and watch my back,” Laurel offers, leaning back against the wall.

Nyssa scoffs. “I said I would train you, and I believe I’ve learned what to teach you next.”

Laurel manages a smile. “You’re going to leave,” she says, because the footsteps are at the roof above them.

“Your friends have made it clear that I’m not welcome,” Nyssa says. She’s already slipping back into the shadows, slipping away. “Keep pressure on the wound.”

“I’m trying,” Laurel says, but she can feel the absence of Nyssa’s hand on her, almost as strongly as the hand itself.

“I expect to see you tomorrow,” Nyssa says, and that edge is gone to her voice, and Laurel is grateful for it. “The flesh wound isn’t an excuse.”

Laurel waves it off and lurches forward as someone lands in front of her. “Of course it’s not.”

“Of course what’s not what?” Diggle says, and she can almost feel him do a double take. “Laurel, what the hell-”

“Can we do the yelling when I’m not bleeding?” Laurel says, because the vigilantism lectures got old twenty seconds into the first one, and she’s not exactly up for another one now of all times.

Diggle blessedly drops it and goes to pick her up. “We need to get you a panic button or a comm or something,” he mutters, probably more to himself than Laurel.

“You still came when I needed you,” Laurel answers, and decides not to add that Nyssa got there first.

 

2.

It takes two weeks to convince Nyssa to go out for coffee with her, after asking every time they finished training. Laurel isn’t sure what changes, but she says “Coffee?” and Nyssa pauses in her stretching and sighs, and Laurel knows that she’s won.

They go to a local hole in the wall, one that she hasn’t been to before. Nyssa looks guarded the whole time but she orders something iced with almost as much caffeine as Laurel does, and they sit down at a table near the back.

“Nanda Parbat isn’t close to civilization,” Laurel says - guesses, really - to make conversation.

Nyssa’s eyes narrow. “You’re asking if I’ve had coffee?”

“If you’ve been in a coffee shop,” Laurel amends. “It doesn’t seem like the Himalayas are a Starbucks hotspot.”

“You would be surprised how far Starbucks reaches,” Nyssa murmurs.

Laurel feels her jaw drop. “You’re kidding.”

“I am.” Nyssa takes a sip of her drink. Laurel gets the distinct impression that she’s being laughed at.

“It’s a reasonable question,” Laurel protests on principle. “Does the League send its agents to cities often? Do you ever get to, you know, hang out?”

“We don’t have that luxury often,” Nyssa says. There’s a blankness to it that Laurel has only heard a couple times before. It means it’s time to back off.

“Then League life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Laurel says. “You had to miss out on good old-fashioned American chain restaurants, and nobody wants that.”

“I think everyone,” Nyssa starts, and then her shoulders go taut. “Laur-”

There are gunshots before she can finish, three of them. Laurel jumps up and spins around to see someone standing, shaking, gun pointed at the floor near her feet. “Laurel Lance,” he says, with the kind of vitriol that most people reserve for mass murderers and lawyers. “You  _ bitch. _ ”

“Put the gun down,” Laurel says, surprised by her own steel. “I don’t know you, but-”

“You don’t  _ know me? _ ” the guy practically shrieks. The gun is wavering so much that it’s almost pointed at Nyssa, not that Nyssa would be fazed by it. “You ruined my life by prosecuting my brother, you stupid-”

“She said put the gun down,” Nyssa says, voice soft.

“You’re gonna stop me?” the guy says. There are, by Laurel’s count, four employees and half a dozen other customers. All civilians. All innocent. “You don’t know her, you don’t know what she did!”

There’s the sound of plastic rubbing against plastic. When Laurel turns, Nyssa is holding the straw to her drink, idly twirling it. “I could kill you with this,” she says, “half a dozen ways.”

“I’d listen to her,” Laurel says. “She’s not bluffing.”

The guy points the gun back at her. “All the coffee shops you could’ve gone to, you came to this one, it’s- it’s a sign, that you were here, that I’m supposed to kill you-”

Nyssa is on her feet in one smooth motion. The guy swings the gun towards her and Nyssa swats it away, sending it to Laurel’s feet. “You’ve made a mistake,” she says, and hits him, twice, three times. He yells out. There are sirens in the distance.

“Nyssa,” Laurel says. “Police.”

“I can speak with the police,” Nyssa says, from where she has the guy pinned against the counter.

“No, I mean save him for the police.”

Nyssa glances at the guy and back at Laurel. “You really don’t recognize him?”

“Being a lawyer means a lot of people want to kill you,” Laurel says, with all the dryness she can manage. “Most of them just don’t have the balls to try in broad daylight.”

“You bitch,” the guy spits out, “you absolute  _ bitch _ -”

Nyssa slams his head into the counter. “We should train for longer tomorrow,” she says. “Your reaction time isn’t what it should be.”

“What should it be?”

“Better,” Nyssa says, as the door swings open. Laurel doesn’t recognize the officer that runs in, but she recognizes the way Nyssa grimaces. “Speaking of a better response time, this one is better than most.”

Laurel barks out a laugh at the look on the officer’s face. “He just happened to be in the neighborhood,” she guesses, and judging by the look on his face she’s right. “Nyssa, don’t worry, it’s fine.”

Nyssa steels her jaw. “We’re working on your reaction time tomorrow,” she says again, more clipped now, and all Laurel can do is nod.

 

3.

There’s a bottle of wine on Laurel’s kitchen counter.

She’s never been one for the slippery slope argument, but she knows that’s how this works. All it takes is one drink. She fell once, she can fall again, she should’ve thrown it out because it’s there, waiting for her. It’s Riesling, not her favorite, but it’s wine, and it’s been a year since she had a drink. And that’s dangerous.

She cleans her apartment twice, steering clear of the kitchen. She runs three miles. She calls her damn mom just for something to do. The wine is still there.

She’s approaching hour seven of staring at the damn bottle when there’s a knock on her door. “It’s open,” she calls, almost absently.

“That’s foolish,” Nyssa says. “In this city?”

“I got distracted and forgot to lock it,” Laurel admits. “I’ve got a couple things on my mind.”

“Anything you’d care to-” Nyssa stops short, a few paces behind her. “Laurel.”

“It was a gift,” Laurel says, not looking away. “Old college friend. There was a card, something about it being my dead sister’s birthday. Apparently she never got the memo that Sara wasn’t dead.”

“Or that you don’t drink,” Nyssa says, voice clipped in a way that Laurel has figured out means she’s worried.

“I’m not going to drink it,” Laurel says. “But it’s still here.”

“You could throw it away.”

“It seems thoughtless.”

“You could give it away.”

“But then it would be gone.” Laurel sighs and turns to Nyssa who’s looking her inscrutably, head tilted in something like sympathy. “I know, it’s stupid, I’m not going to drink it and I should get rid of it-”

“-but getting rid of it means closing a door,” Nyssa says. “And closing the door is more difficult than simply refusing to enter an open doorway.”

Laurel blinks. “Yeah,” she says, winded. “That’s it.”

“Then I’ll stand in the doorway and stop you,” Nyssa says. Laurel watches her go to the counter and pluck the bottle of wine, examining the label. “I prefer red, but I could use a gift.”

“It’s yours,” Laurel says, and a knot eases in her chest. “Thank you.”

“I came because it’s Sara’s birthday,” Nyssa says. “And I didn’t want to be alone. Although I understand if you do.”

Laurel thinks about it. She already called her mother, and she knows her dad wouldn’t pick up the phone. The odds that anyone on Team Arrow takes the night off are pretty low, and as much as she loves Lyla she doesn’t know that she could stomach seeing a baby named after her sister. And she has no reason to be alone tonight.

“Did you want to go out?” She gets to her feet. “Or stay in? Have you gotten to enjoy the time-honored tradition of getting takeout and watching shitty reruns yet?”

Nyssa smiles, barely, genuinely. “I haven’t,” she says. “Should I take the bottle away?”

Laurel closes her eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “Do you want Chinese, pizza, Italian…”

Nyssa pauses before she says, timidly, “Did Sara have a favorite?”

Laurel forgets, sometimes, about Nyssa and Sara. Or, no, not quite forgets, but doesn’t think about what exactly it means. But she knows that her Sara and Nyssa’s Sara aren’t quite the same. Laurel’s Sara isn’t a murderer. She supposes Nyssa’s Sara doesn’t eat much takeout.

“She liked Indian food,” Laurel says after a minute, looking back at Nyssa. She looks more uncertain than Laurel has ever seen her. “Especially curry.”

“Then we should order curry,” Nyssa says. “And- cake? A birthday cake?”

“We can get a birthday cake,” Laurel agrees. “Chocolate, but with white frosting.”

“Because she thought chocolate on chocolate was too much,” Nyssa murmurs, and Laurel’s chest clenches. They had the same Sara after all.

“I’ll see if I can call someone for a cake,” Laurel says.

“And I’ll take the bottle outside,” Nyssa says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Laurel says. It feels like it’s being punched out of her. She doesn’t know why.

Nyssa’s smile widens. Her eyes are softer than Laurel has ever seen. “Of course,” she says, and leaves, and Laurel goes into her kitchen for the first time all day. There are takeout menus in a cupboard, somewhere that she was afraid to go earlier, but she can get them now. With Nyssa, there’s no reason to be afraid.

 

4.

Laurel avoids getting stabbed and shot for a while longer, because that’s what people are supposed to do. Nyssa trains her and doesn’t come with her when she patrols, and Laurel gets better at fighting. And that should be it.

And then Laurel wakes up in the basement of Verdant with a splitting headache and no real idea how she got there.

“What,” she says, a little groggily, and Thea leaps to her feet. Just watching her hurts Laurel’s head, so she closes her eyes.

“Nonono, Laurel, hey-” there’s a hand on her shoulder, breath just close enough to her face that she can feel it. “You have to keep your eyes open, okay?”

Laurel takes a deep breath and drags her eyes open. Thea’s hovering over her, looking scared. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Thea admits. “Nyssa brought you here and then left, and Dig went after her, but he said if you wake up I can’t let you fall back asleep.”

“Concussion,” Laurel guesses. Her head is pounding.

“Probably,” Thea agrees. “Do you remember anything?”

Laurel thinks back. “Drug dealers,” she says slowly. “More than I expected, but I was holding my own, and one of them-” she blinks a few times. “I think he took a swing at my head.”

“Was Nyssa with you?”

“No,” Laurel says. “She doesn’t come out with me.”

“You’re sure?” Thea frowns. “She seemed pretty worried.”

Laurel forces herself to focus. She remembers the pavement, shouting, people running, Nyssa’s voice begging her to open her eyes. “She might’ve followed me.”

“Is that a thing she does?”

“Sometimes,” Laurel admits. Nyssa’s voice, trying to get her to stay awake. Nyssa’s lips, hot and dry against her forehead, against her own lips-- “Where did you say Nyssa went?”

“I’m not sure. I think she said she was going back.” Thea frowns. “I know she’ll be okay, but are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel says. Her head hurts, and she has to be remembering wrong, and Nyssa couldn’t have kissed her. “Can you dim the lights? It’s too bright in here.”

“Of course.” Thea grabs Laurel’s hand and squeezes before going to change the lights, and Laurel stares up at the ceiling.

(Nyssa doesn’t come back, and the next time Laurel sees her she’s so smooth, so unaffected that Laurel is sure she wasn’t imagining the kiss. It’s too polished for Nyssa, the Nyssa she knows. But she doesn’t say anything, and neither does Nyssa, and that means the matter is closed.)

 

+1.

Nyssa al Ghul is the only person Laurel has ever met who likes strawberry ice cream - actually likes it, the way most people like chocolate or mint chocolate chip. It’s the most confounding thing Laurel has encountered about her, somehow more baffling than the whole “international assassin” thing. At least Laurel has seen other international assassins.

“I don’t know why this is such a surprise,” Nyssa says, and Laurel is sure that she’s being laughed at. “Surely some people like strawberry ice cream.”

“But it’s not their favorite! People get strawberry milkshakes, not ice cream.”

“I don’t see why that’s a significant difference.”

“You don’t drink ice cream,” Laurel says. They’re sitting by the window of an ice cream shop - one that Tommy used to take Laurel to, not that she’s going to mention that. Nyssa looks more like a regular person than Laurel is used to, and it’s a nice change. Laurel likes this Nyssa.

“But that hardly makes a difference,” Nyssa argues.

“It makes all the difference in the world.”

Nyssa shakes her head, a tiny smile at the edge of her lips. “You are utterly baffling,” she says, and a building down the block explodes. Nyssa jerks back, and Laurel whirls around. There’s smoke in the distance.

“I don’t think we have time to finish our ice cream,” Laurel says.

Nyssa lifts an eyebrow. “We?”

“You follow me on patrol,” Laurel says. “I’ve got you figured out. You might as well come openly.”

“We don’t need to patrol,” Nyssa points out. “We can be… two concerned citizens. With ice cream.”

“You really don’t want to let your ice cream go,” Laurel mutters, but she gets to her feet. “Let’s see what it is now.”

Nyssa actually takes her ice cream with her as they go down the block, still dressed in civvies. Laurel feels a little naked without Sara’s jacket, and she’d wonder if Nyssa does too, but she knows better. Nyssa has at least two knives on her right now. She’s good to go.

“I can’t imagine explosions are the most common around here,” Nyssa says between bites of ice cream.

“Not in the financial district,” Laurel says. The building is smoldering, but there don’t seem to be people streaming out of it. That’s either a very good sign or a very bad one. “Should we check for survivors?”

“It looks abandoned,” Nyssa says, and Laurel glances at her. “We shouldn’t need to-”

It’s dumb luck, total dumb luck, that Laurel sees the red light on the wall of the building beside Nyssa. She doesn’t have the chance to think about it before she jumps on top of Nyssa, pushing her to the ground. Nyssa doesn’t make a sound, not even when the bullet hits where her head just was.

“Why would there be a sniper?” Laurel gasps, rolling off Nyssa. There are people running away now, and screaming, and she knows that Team Arrow will be a part of the situation in a matter of minutes.

“A sniper would cause chaos, incite a panic.” Nyssa looks at Laurel incredulously. “You just saved my life.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Laurel mutters, looking over at Nyssa. They’re still on the ground, and they should get up, run either towards the danger or away, but she can’t look away from Nyssa. “I had a good teacher.”

“I didn’t think it possible for you to notice what I couldn’t.” Nyssa shakes her head, and she’s smiling, the most openly that Laurel has seen her smile. It’s breathtaking. “You continue to defy what I expect of you, Laurel.”

And there are a thousand things Laurel could say to that, smart and sweet and clever things, but what she says instead is, “I’m not Sara.”

Nyssa pulls back, face shuttering off. “I’m well aware-”

“No, wait, I need to try that again.” Laurel takes a deep breath. “I’m not my sister, but I know you kissed me last week after the concussion, and I want to make sure that’s not why.”

“Of course you’re not Sara,” Nyssa says, voice tight. “You’re not replacing her, either. Is it so hard to believe-”

“No,” Laurel says, because it’s not. “I just wanted to be sure before I did this.” She pushes herself up onto one side, just enough that she can lean over Nyssa. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

“As if I couldn’t stop you,” Nyssa breathes, and she doesn’t flinch as Laurel kisses her. One of her hands twines in Laurel’s hair, pulls her down further, and Laurel leans into it, settling one hand on Nyssa’s hip.

Nyssa pulls away moments later. “We’re lying on the street,” she says, “and you owe me new ice cream.”

“I owe you new ice cream?” Laurel repeats in disbelief. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save your life and your ice cream, and besides, don’t you think dinner would be a better first date?”

Nyssa pauses. “Would you like to go on a date?”

“Would  _ you _ like to go on a date?”

“I would like to kiss you somewhere that isn’t lying on the street in front of a burning building,” Nyssa says, with a tone of finality.

Laurel grins. “I think we can manage that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic is a line from ["things the dove can hold inside its beak (girl one)"](https://continental-drift.bandcamp.com/track/things-the-dove-can-hold-inside-its-beak-girl-one) by continental drift, whose EP was my backtrack for this fic. Thanks for reading - you can find me on [Twitter](twitter.com/waveridden) or [Tumblr!](http://waveridden.tumblr.com)


End file.
